


Tales of Little Hollow

by Avleveri



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Western, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-08-29 04:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16736989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avleveri/pseuds/Avleveri
Summary: He inhaled deeply, then sat up on his stool, directing his gaze at the man next to him. His eyes met with the deep brown of those opposite. His face was young, shaven but unclean. Dusty. He had travelled far then. His dress was unlike that of any rancher, nor any lawmaker in these parts. Foreign, too. But kind. Nobody with a face like that could have done any wrong. So he spoke.“You’re not from around here.”“No. I’m not.”A minute passed.“Not tonight,” he paused “Noon tomorrow. Outside Eden across the way.”





	1. Chapter 1: Joshua Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shurely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shurely/gifts).



> I have little idea of where this is going just yet, just kinda making it up as I go. I thought it would be interesting to explore a new Hank/Connor dynamic in the context of 1880s Old West?? Idk I watched Westworld once and this is what happened :3
> 
> This will feature some death, some swears, derogatory tone towards pretty much everything (It's Hank). I hope you enjoy it though! Leave a comment if you're that way inclined

The Sun was finishing its journey across the sky as the afternoon drew the night ever closer. As it moved beyond the rocky outcrops towering over the landscape to the West, the heated sands below became cold, swallowed by their shadows. The sky was turning the deep orange colour that he had seen nowhere else except here; the air tasted of dust. Vultures circled around him where they stood, some perched expectantly on the branches of the single Joshua tree for miles around. They had travelled miles just to find it.

A man to his right was speaking in a low tone, his Stetson angled over his eyes as if to both offer shade and prevent himself from looking at the man in front of him too closely. His moustache was thick and dark, the thick lips below pursed around a thin quirly cigarette he had just lit. He knew how this went. Acknowledging his speaking was taxing enough in the evening heat, so the words didn’t filter through the otherwise empty cavern of his mind. He needed a drink.

The Sheriff looked at him, expecting. He asked the man in front of them a question, then watched as the man, the boy, looked at him with tears in his eyes and a quiver in his lip he couldn’t quite bite away. The boy shook his head, pulling his eyes away and dragging them across the floor to his feet. Within moments, the box he was stood upon was kicked out from beneath him, his body falling limply as the rope holding him up swayed with his weight. They waited for a few minutes longer, before the Sheriff turned his horse away and drew up beside him.

“Shame. Horseman to the manner born. His brothers will follow no doubt, they got rustlin’ in their damn blood.”

He scoffed, his face suddenly falling as he looked into the cold blue eyes of the other man, before continuing away from the tree. The Sheriff was tough: sober, careful and respected. He guessed he'd got used to these errands by now. But he himself had a tougher time. That boy was barely grown.

His head felt heavy as his horse led him away through the desert. The Sun was almost gone, the last hazes of light probing between the outcrops to his left, illuminating his face. He tipped his hat and travelled the rest of the way in the small patch of darkness it created. The vultures were still circling him, a hideous reminder of the day, the week, his life. He could hear them, hissing and grunting the way pigs do when they’re angered or hungry.

He thought back to the first time he made this trip. The Sheriff used to always accompany him, but he preferred the quiet. It gave him time to think, to process what would soon happen or had just taken place. The location never changed: anyone caught around Little Hollow to the South, all the way up to the borders of Goose County in the North knew of it. Perhaps he and the Sheriff were the only two still living who had seen it, and more than enough times for everyone in these parts. He tried not to think about that too much. The first man hanging was the oldest he had seen at the tree, an old county marshal from a few miles East. Caught by his own son selling an old Remington to a Cheyenne, the daughter of whom he soon took off with. He had thought it shameful that a man would knowingly get his own father killed to be with one of them. The father said as much in his final breath.

The small sign with the town name scrawled over it had passed him by without his noticing. Then came the wooden buildings, awkwardly standing either side of him as he walked beside his horse, hat still shielding his face. The sounds of women, and their clients, floated through the air towards him from the brothel at the far end of the track, broken up only by the sound of a man too close to his right staggering out of the gambling hall and into the street. His face was bleeding from an empty eye socket and crumpled nose as he struggled to scramble away fast. A broad man emerged through the doorway to follow him with a bloodied hand.

He kept on walking, until he slowed and tied his horse to the wooden fence in front of a tall, dimly lit building. He pushed his forehead to the neck of his beast, breathing in her scent before bringing over a wooden pail he had filled with water. He stroked her one last time, before entering the building ahead.

As he entered, a fair skinned male with a dark scar across the bridge of his nose lifted his whiskey to him, a smirk lighting his eyes in something akin to mischief. A taunt. He ignored it, walking over to the bar, the bottom of his duster coat flicking up as he walked, the sound of his spurs clanging menacingly with each step. The barmaid watched him approach whilst whispering into the ear of another eager gentleman, then turned away, coy, and prepared his drink. She set it down for him as soon as he was seated, then turned her attention back to her closed conversation with the other man.

He sighed as he looked into his drink. The saloon was the same as it always was. The piano man played the piano. A few of the regulars, ranchers, played poker as the smoke from their cigars created a thick impenetrable layer of both privacy and security from outside interference. The women circled around them, sitting in their laps or dragging them up the steep wooden staircase in the centre of the saloon. He watched as a woman half his age escorted some drunken deadbeat up the stairs and into the night. The piano man continued to play the piano.

He finished his drink, but didn’t move. The door swung behind him as someone walked in. It was a busy night, he thought to himself. But before he could dwell any more on it, a man appeared at the bar next to him, leaning over to order from the barmaid. He pulled the stool close to where he was sitting, but he didn’t look up.

“I hear you’re the county marshal of these parts. I asked where you could be found, but nobody knew where you were.” His voice came out lower than he had expected.

He wasn’t from around here.

He looked up from the bar, his back straightening. His grey hair hung low around his face, shielding his eyes from the man addressing him.

“What do you want?”

“I’m looking for something. I was told you’re the man I can tie to when it comes to finding it.” His tone remained even, unperturbed by the gruffness in the older man’s voice.

He inhaled deeply, then sat up on his stool, directing his gaze at the man next to him. His eyes met with the deep brown of those opposite. His face was young, shaven but unclean. Dusty. He had travelled far then. His dress was unlike that of any rancher, nor any lawmaker in these parts. Foreign, too. But kind. Nobody with a face like that could have done any wrong. So he spoke.

“You’re not from around here.”

“No. I’m not.”

A minute passed.

“Not tonight,” he paused “Noon tomorrow. Outside Eden's across the way.”

The young man tipped his hat as he watched the marshal turn and leave the saloon. He was left staring after him. Tomorrow, then.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marshal goes to meet the man from the saloon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay gang so I haven't updated this for months HOWEVER i have written out a brief plan of what's going to happen. Drink (water) every time someone's hat covers their eyes, I mention the sun or the desert. I hope you like it, it was fun to write!

The rooster crowed harshly twice, as the sun began to heat the desert once more. He lay there for a moment, contemplating movement as the disheveled dark blue curtains draped across his window struggled to keep the light out. He opened his eyes.

 

His room was warm, cloaked as usual in the oranges and yellows of the dawn, dust floating slowly through the beams of light pushing through the cracks in the wooden frame of his small wooden shack. He liked how the world was still in the morning: no disturbance, just him and the settling silence. After some minutes, he left his cramped little bed in the corner of the room, rising only to relieve himself and to wash the dust of yesterday from his skin in the basin on the table opposite him. His mind was foggy, the night before having left him a little unsteady on his feet. But not for long. The marshall was a seasoned professional when it came to drinking, and then again when it came to making his body function (albeit reluctantly) the morning after.

 

As he pulled on his clothes, he found himself slowly remembering the man he had met the night before. He had never seen anyone like it; the few people he did know around here preferred to beat the devil around the stump when it came to hygiene, something which seemed senseless in a place still covered in the dirt it was built upon. But not him: clean shaven, even smart-looking. Not from around here at all. With the memory of his face came the memory of his own words: meet at noon, outside Eden’s. 

 

He lit a cigarette as he set his old brown hat back on his head, walking slowly around to the little stool by the piano in the other room. He brushed the dust from it, and self-consciously flipped the bottom of his coat out from below him. As he exhaled a channel of smoke from the corner of his mouth, he stubbed the cigarette butt on the lid of the piano. The ash flew away as he lifted it up, his hands settling on his lap.

 

\-----

“That’s it, just play one note at a time, no need to get all caught up in it just yet!”

 

The curly hair of the boy sat on his lap tickled his neck as he bent his head over to guide his hand over the keys, and to watch the little fingers of the child trying to copy beside his. His hair smelt like flowers. The boy fumbled across the keys too quickly, getting frustrated and slamming his fist into them. He huffed an exasperated breath, and turned up his father.

 

“Pappa, I’m no good.”

 

Hank laughed, and sighed, kissing his son on his forehead.

 

“Boy, you just gotta practice. Let’s go together this time.”

 

He picked up the boy’s index finger with one hand and supported his wrist with the other, wrapping his arms around him in the process as they played the notes together. As they were pressed the keys, his son looked up to him happily, his eyes sparkling wide and brown. He giggled as Hank moved his hand their hands much faster, hitting the notes more loudly, and started to hum the song they were playing. Cole joined in soon after. Both were giggling, voices ringing through the house.

 

\-----

 

He looked up at the old wooden clock on the far side of the room, only to realise he had been sitting for far too long. With a sigh, he willed his body upwards, grabbed the reins for his horse from the table by the door and closed it behind him, without looking back.

 

\-----

 

He rode up towards the town across the desert. It felt particularly dry today: his throat felt as though thick with dust. He had thought to pack the leather bag he used only for long journeys with his camping supplies, just in case this man led him on a wild goose chase. A single cloud floated through the sky, tempting him with the prospect of rain. The thought would have driven him mad if he hadn’t found himself but ten minutes ride from from the well at the end of town. 

 

As he approached, a silhouette of a man on a tall dark horse came towards him. He couldn’t make out who it might have been, until he saw the godawful smug face of Reed, his hat pulled over his eyes and a dry piece of straw sticking out from his mouth.

 

“Howdy old man,” he began, “Seems to me there’s a grand little fella out waitin’ for someone to give him a good whippin’, walking round lookin’ fine as cream gravy. What’s he got that we don-”

 

“Shut your trap, Reed. Ain’t none of your damn business who’s here and who ain’t.” He hated Reed, his prying nature too much for the marshall to deal with in heat like this. He knew he had been spotted with the very man being described to him, the night before. It never took Reed long before his curiosity got the better of him.

 

“Suit yourself. Best hurry if he’s a’waiting for you, he looked about ready to sc-” Hank kicked his heels into his stocky grey mount, who began to gallop in response down the street, kicking up dust behind her just for good measure.

 

\---

 

Eden’s was a wide building, the upright wooden beams barely summoning up the strength to keep straight. As usual, women in deep blues and reds sauntered outside the main doorway. The man from the night before stood in front of him, about twenty feet away. He could see one woman approach him. She had long blonde hair, that, unlike on all the others, fell straight over her shoulders. Her wide prairie skirt was the colour of midnight, and her blouse was a dusty cream. She approached him flirtatiously, but walked away as he paid her little attention. Hank could see him shake his head at whatever she was whispering into his ear, before turning back to look straight back at him. He got off his horse and walked the last few feet to the door.

 

“Been waiting here a while, thought you wouldn’t show.”

 

“Got no reason not to, have I?” he was on edge already. He knew he was late, but it had never been a problem before. Life in Little Hollow is not exactly something you rush about getting to. A minute passed between them. 

 

“Quit wastin’ my time. Why are we here?” it came out harsher than intended, but at least it broke the silence.

 

“Like I said. I’m looking for something, and I’ve been told you’re the man to help me. It might take a few weeks, but I can pay, don’t you worry about that. Can you do it?”

 

Hank stood, looking at everything else around him except the man. The proposition in front of him sounded unusual, probably a lot more dangerous than breaking up fights between cattle ranchers or breaking necks up Joshua. He sighed at how easy the decision came to him.

 

“How much you offering?” he enquired, in an attempt to make it seem like he was still considering.

 

“Name your price.”

 

Hank had nothing here. His house was nothing more than a few planks of wood, sturdy enough to keep the memories in but not enough to care about. He took a swig of something strong from the flask tied to his hip. Maybe he didn’t mind if he never came back.

 

“Deal.”

 

The other man smiled, his face warm and unusually genuine, but guarded. The marshall didn’t even know who the guy was, where he came from nor what he was looking for, but he had signed up for it all the same. 

 

They both got on their horses and walked back through the town in silence. 

 

It was an unusual site around those parts: two riders, bags full, walking in the same direction out of Little Hollow and into the desert.


End file.
